After the Movie: A Spoof
by GlassAngel
Summary: Post-2004 movie. A general spoofaloo of all those EC phics where Christine has an epiphany regarding her Angel...What lengths will Christine go to in order to win Erik back? And why is everyone speaking English in Paris?


**This has been floating around my computer for several weeks now...so here it is. Kudos to you if you pick up all the random references to other things! Enjoy!**

**Now, may I present:**

**After the Movie: A Spoof**

One day, Christine de Chagny, formerly Christine Daae, came to several startling and generally paradigm-shifting conclusions. For reasons of convenience, they will be enumerated and generally laid out in an orderly manner, preceded by a colon:

The Phantom of the Opera's name was, in fact, Erik. How she knew that, she didn't know.

She, in fact, loved Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, the Opera Ghost, the Angel of Music, the Angel of Death, Red Death, the Gentleman with Entirely Too Many Titles, more than Raoul.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, she, in fact, did not love Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, her husband, her childhood sweetheart, the fop, a pansy, the Guy with a Pretty Ponytail, as much as she loved Erik et al. She would, however, always have a soft spot in her heart for him.

Somehow, she, in fact, knew how to speak English. As such, Raoul became a Viscount instead of a Vicomte.

Upon becoming aware of the facts stated above, she did the only thing a lady of her rank would do.

She gasped.

Then she made a plan to win back the love of her Angel et al.

Tears brimmed in her large, brown, doe-eyes. Of course, they could just as well have been big blue eyes, which are occasionally referred to as 'orbs'. These are favored by book/Broadway people, while movie people like the brown ones. These are almost always called doe-eyes, despite the fact that Christine is not, and never will be, a slender-legged ruminant mammal belonging to the family _Cervidae_.

But I digress.

Tears brimmed in her large, brown, doe-eyes as she realized what she must do. She fetched a delicate piece of pink stationery with her new initials, CDC. Her initials were lovely in their fearful symmetry, which for some reason rhymes with 'eye'.

In a delicate, ladylike script, Christine wrote a letter to Raoul proclaiming her undying soft spot for him. It went something like this:

_Dear Raoul,_

_I love Erik, whom you know only as the Phantom, more than you. I intend to go off and live underground and get a divorce from you. I shall forever have a soft spot in my heart for you._

_Almost-love,_

_Christine_

_P.S. It didn't help that you kept staring at yourself in the mirror. Do your next wife a favor and look up Narcissa—I mean, Narcissus._

She sealed it with a kiss, wiped away those brimming tears, sniffled a little, and told a servant to bring her suitcase. Then she left.

*****

Raoul walked in from—oh, wherever busy viscounts go during the day. "Chreesteene?" he called. "I'm 'ome!" Raoul had learned to speak English at some point, but he had a rather atrocious French accent. Because she will be speaking much more than Raoul, Christine will not be afflicted with such a terrible…thing.

Raoul spotted the pink envelope, opened it, and read the letter inside. His face crumpled dramatically, and a single tear slid down his face.

"Oh, Chreesteene," he said, weeping. "I know heem as The Pervert Stalker, as well."

*****

Meanwhile, Christine marched through the front doors of the Opera Populaire/Opera Garnier/Paris Opera House. An older woman strode up to her, though Madame Giry should have been conducting rehearsal. She was dressed all in black, from her boots to her dress to her assorted bits of Victorian female clothing. They had an extensive reunion, because quite frequently there's a tearful reunion, during which Meg arrived. It was discovered both mother and daughter had the same heavy French accent that Raoul had. Why Meg was hanging around the staircases in the front of the opera house instead of dancing was equally confusing.

Nadir poofed in from Kay's book and pointed at Christine. "Why is she here?"

"Chreesteene Daae has returned," Madame Giry said informatively, and Nadir nodded, informed.

"I hope no worse for wear, as far as we're concerned!" cried Firmin, bursting onto the scene, sculpted hair slightly askew. Andre trailed behind him.

Madame Giry flapped a hand dismissively at him. "'Oo are late. Wrong song."

Firmin pouted. Disappointed, he and Andre returned to the supply closet they'd been hiding in.

"CHREESTEENE DAAE?!?!"

The accent was not French. It was Italian.

Carlotta stormed down the stairs until she was inside Christine's personal bubble. She warbled something long, high, and Italian in Chreesteene's—sorry, Christine's—face.

Christines around the world are known to sometimes take on the personalities of each other. Christine's eyes turned blue and she magically grew older. Then, to complete the Brightman moment, she trilled something very hard and very shrill in Carlotta's face.

None of the witnesses could tell what she trilled. It could have been French, but it was drowned out slightly when all the windows shattered and fell to the ground.

Point is, Carlotta backed off, mostly because Christine's Brightman-esque trill had knocked her on her butt. Or derriere, since this is France. Technically, though, she fell on her hoop skirt.

Christine smiled proudly. Her eyes returned to their original brown color, and she went back to being underage.

A de Chagny servant finally caught up with Christine and staggered into the room, panting and gasping for air. A fine sheen of sweat shone on his brow.

"What does my lade weesh meeeeee to do weeth thees valeese?" he asked, still panting. Meg glanced at him admiringly.

"Take it down to the fifth cellar," Christine said dismissively. The servant bowed and headed off.

Christine looked at Madame Giry. "I need to know how to get down to Erik's lair."

"I cannot tell 'oo at first. I must first ask 'oo if 'oo are sure and try to make 'oo change your mind."

"Now I convince you that my feelings for Erik are true. I love him. Done."

"Okay," Madame Giry said brightly. "Well, 'oo must follow several flights of stairs, then—"

"Excuse me," Nadir interrupted breezily, stepping forward. "I believe Ms. Kay has an easier solution. Take this key and unlock the door on the Rue Scribe entrance to Erik's home."

Christine took the small key (because keys are never large, are they?) from him, said a word of thanks ("thanks"), and went the way Nadir described (parentheses).

The door creaked ominously open and Christine stepped into the black room. The door closed behind her, and she was surrounded by darkness. After a minute, her eyes adjusted, because that's what eyes always seem to do. She saw a flickering light far down the tunnel she was standing at the mouth of and walked in that direction.

"What a shame," she sighed, though how people sigh words escapes reason. "That Persian guy's shortcut was certainly handy-dandy, like that notebook, but I didn't get to descend the same path we took that night after Hannibal. I didn't have to struggle with the gondola and miraculously make it to the other side despite the fact that I've never used the thing before. Above all, I didn't get to be misty-eyed or filled with sadness as I reminisced on more innocent days or some such filth. Oh well."

The tunnel opened up into a large room that had been tastefully decorated before the mob tore it to shreds. Literally. Christine saw a shred of a sofa, a shred of a drawing, a shred of candlestick… Christine looked through the other rooms and saw the rest of Erik's house had suffered the same abuse. Even the poor, hulking pipe organ had dents in the wood, and the pipes were twisted off.

Because her hearing was nearly as good as a bat's, she heard something that sounded suspiciously like crying coming from the music room and went in there. There was a gaping black hole in one of the walls which Christine had missed before. She knelt in the smaller tunnel and saw Erik, her love, her Angel of Something, sitting against the wall.

The past…what was it, two or three weeks since she sang down here and made out with Erik? Three weeks sounds good. The past three weeks had taken a toll on Erik. His tailored shirt was hanging loosely off his torso, which both showed he'd lost a lot of weight and made phangirls swoon at the expansive view of his chest.

His long black hair (because it definitely wasn't that strawberry-blond wispy stuff) had fallen forward, covering his half-gorgeous face. He had no mask, even though Meg had told Christine she'd kindly left one down here for him. His enchanting blue/green/hazel/grey-green/gold/yellow eyes were filled with disbelief as he stared at her in the entrance to the tunnel. And, of course, he was still sexy as hell.

"Christine?" he whispered, showing off his lack of a French accent. Actually, it was a bit Scottish, come to think of it… "Excellent. I've gone mad. Though some say I was insane the whole time."

Christine shook her head. "Nope, it's me, mon ange. By the way, I don't love Raoul anymore, so I'm moving in." She smiled sweetly.

Erik suddenly became very angry and started in on his mandatory disbelief and anger. "No! You hurt me. You betrayed me. You tore out my heart, shredded it, fed it to a hound, who then regurgitated it, then—"

"I know, but I love you! I really do! Why won't you believe me?"

Erik blinked. "Were you not listening? You tore out—"

"Please, Erik?" Christine saw that wasn't working and tried a different tack. "Sing to me, Angel!" she said brightly.

Erik stared at her, then started singing. A beautiful melody spilled, floated, emanated, and otherwise came out of his mouth, and Christine stared at him with a blank expression on her face until she heard the words.

"Erik, that's not a song of your own composition," Christine protested indignantly. "That's generally what you try to seduce me with."

"Actually, Andy wrote all those songs, not me…" Erik mused. "Anyway, I thought OneRepublic got my point across rather nicely, don't you think?"

"Well, then why were you crying earlier?"

"_Excuse me?_" Erik spluttered. "I was not!"

"I heard you crying."

"I do not cry. I weep," Erik said haughtily.

"Well, then I heard you weeping," Christine huffed.

Erik and Christine continued to argue about things of that nature until apparently Erik decided to give it a go. Christine never even beat him into submission with her astounding logic or anything, either.

Anyway, they soon ended up happily cuddled in each other's arms, or some such sappy thing.

"Oh, Erik, I've missed you so," Christine said happily. Or some such sappy thing.

"And you smell lovely, m'dear." Erik inhaled her perfume. "You smell of freesia—no, sorry, wrong book—roses? Yes, you smell of roses."

Christine picked up one shining, luscious brown curl and sniffed it daintily. "A little, I suppose. It's that new shampoo I bought. Do you like it?"

"Yes, mon ange, I do. Now, I don't suppose you'd like to ignore all social custom of the day and let me sleep in the swan bed with you?"

Christine looked righteously shocked. "How can you suggest such a thing? The shame!"

Erik tried to look embarrassed, but it was hard to do with the disappointed pout on his face. "Well, it's not my idea. But that's what half the people out there are doing these days. You invite me to in order to stave off nightmares, or some other excuse, then I protest based on my fine social graces, then you persuade me and I give in. Then we drift off to sleep. End scene."

Christine looked aghast, then recovered. She made a sound that, if she were not a lady, would be described as a snort. But a snort by any other name is still a snort, and technically, she wasn't a real lady. She was a singer, and real ladies don't like singers. "Why, how vulgar. Nobody in their right mind would do that."

Erik was secretly disappointed, since he thought it was a fine idea. They had more conversation, and then Erik popped the question. "Can you get off my legs? They're cramping." He sounded apologetic.

"Yes, of course." Christine complied without complaint, and Erik was glad he hadn't mentioned that he thought she'd put on weight since _Don Juan_.

Then Erik popped the question. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes, of course."

Erik peered closely at her face. "Did you hear what I just said?"

"Yes, of course."

Erik sighed impatiently. "Christine!"

"Yes, mon ange?"

"Will you marry me?"

She blinked, confused. "Didn't I just say yes?"

Erik sighed.

Christine and Erik were married on a lovely clear Sunday in April. Madame Giry, Nadir, Firmin, and Andre were there, too, but that might have been because they did a double wedding. For some reason, Meg married Raoul, having quickly forgotten Christine's dashing suitcase-toter.

Eventually Erik and Christine had several children, whose names were Rose, Gustave/Charles, Tristan, Dominic, and Dominique. They renovated Erik's lair and lived happily ever after.

Oh, and that's the end, I suppose. FIN.

*****

**Well, it was fun to write, at least. It's also my first serious attempt at a humor phic (does that make any sense?...) so I'd love some feedback. Good, bad, whatever. :) Thanks for reading!**

**~ange**


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